


A Code to Live By

by sanerontheinside



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Qui-Dad Jinn, Sentient Sith Temple, Sith AU, Sith Qui-Gon Jinn, Sith Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 13:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16934196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanerontheinside/pseuds/sanerontheinside
Summary: All his life, Obi-Wan has been taught to fear the Sith. They were legends, they were the monsters in the crèchetales. But the only person to have shown him care and kindness in some time is also a Sith—or rather, he has Sith eyes, and he calls himself Not-Jedi.He's been turned out of the Temple a month before he reached his age limit. Instead of the AgriCorps, he ended up on an Offworld-owned mining platform run by slave labour. He's almost died at least twice. And there's a Sith—a Not-Jedi—taking care of him all of the sudden.All things considered, he's probably taking all of this rather well.





	1. Ancient Whispers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Start of the Line](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810622) by [dogmatix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogmatix/pseuds/dogmatix), [norcumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/norcumi/pseuds/norcumi). 



> Once again, to avoid any disappointment:
> 
> I have no update schedule for this work. I have nebulous plans, and Somewhere on the Internets there is a Sith Ask Anon who prompted this work into existence. Every now and then I may add things to it. 
> 
> I am posting it in unfinished form against my usual policy because I'm doing a tumblr backup, and because it'll probably be easier to find for anyone who wishes to reread it at their leisure. And I do have plans for it. It's really all a question of whether I'll ever get around to them :/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there are a couple warnings at the end, btw, so check them out just in case.

_ For a long time, the Temple had been near dormant. Honest to Force, it was patently  _ bored. _ The labyrinthine innards found new permutations to rearrange themselves and wrought havoc with indigenous rodents’ routes. The little monsters found their way anyhow—the smartest ones even knew where their tunnels changed the least. The Temple amused itself that way, at least once with every new generation, but it wasn’t enough.  _

_ The dust at the entrance had sat undisturbed for many years before  _ he _ arrived—a lost child searching for guidance, when his previous mentor had betrayed him. Had spent years betraying him, in fact.  _

_ The Temple knew and loved its own. It recognised this one, for all that he had been trained… badly. But that was only more reason for the Temple to want to lay claim to him. He'd been manipulated by a hand that worked the Dark Side crudely, but he'd kept something good and warm and precious alive, even through the pain and hate. And so the Temple wrapped him in its welcoming voices, nudged him along to its very heart, lighting the way for the bright little flame.  _

_ The visions were never a pleasant thing. They were designed for the purpose of facing one's greatest demons and perceived failures. But the Lost Child fared well, and bit by bit the Temple worked to unravel the web of deceit that had been laid in his mind.  _

_ In truth, that might have taken years to achieve, and one’s greatest fears are never faced in a Darkened cavern. Reality is where real Darkness reigns and must truly be faced—and for this, a half-sentient mass of moving stone is hardly the best instructor. So, eventually, the Temple let him turn and go, whispering the need for another student in his ear and hoping that someday he would return with a worthy successor.  _

_ Until then, the Temple would be content to sleep again. After all, it had finally found what had long been missing—there was still someone in the universe who felt like the Old Ones. The Temple missed its Masters.  _

* * *

 

“Well, well. What have we here?” 

The voice was quiet, a little dust-choked—was he imagining it, or did the man sound tired? Obi-Wan didn’t know. He couldn’t muster more than a vague sluggish thought anyway, and thought that he must have hit his head—again. He didn’t want to go to the Healers, not after last time—

But then he remembered that he wasn’t at the Temple. There were no Healers on Bandomeer, not for the miners, certainly not for the ones with slave collars clasped around their throats. Obi-Wan squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to whimper, not to think about what the owner of that voice would do when he found him lying here among the rubble. 

Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this—not the gentle touch that lifted him up from the ground, the warm arm wrapping around his shoulders and keeping him upright. A polite Force probe checked for broken bones, and, he supposed, a concussion. 

“Hello there, little one,” that voice rumbled near Obi-Wan’s ear, and he looked up, wide-eyed, at the man who had found him. 

The golden eyes— _Sith eyes_ —had him trying to scramble back immediately, spurred by the nightmarish stories he’d been told in the créche. Those were the eyes that haunted the Jedi in their nightmares, those were the eyes of the enemy. 

He didn’t scoot back very far, almost toppling over but for the strange man’s careful hold on his shoulders. His grip wasn’t hard at all, and tightened only fractionally when the world tipped. Obi-Wan stopped struggling, dragged his eyes back up with some effort to watch the man carefully, and reconsidered his attempt at flight. It wasn’t as though he could run, or fight off this Wookiee of a man on his own, not when he was queasy and the world swam sickeningly. 

He still flinched, though, when gentle fingers brushed lightly over the slave collar. The man froze, a sharp catch in his breath. 

“That must be unpleasant,” he murmured, letting his hand fall away. Obi-Wan tracked every motion—or tried to, through the fog in his mind. “Who put that on you?” 

Obi-Wan said nothing. He wasn’t fool enough to trust those golden eyes, gentle as they seemed. He could just taste a smokey honey-amber sweetness in the Force that played around the man, a particular tang that belonged to the Dark. Xanatos had felt colder, crueler, but—Dark was Dark. 

Wasn’t it? 

The man sighed, eyes moving to the collar again, as if he already knew the answer. “I can’t take that off you here. It’s explosive, at best I could buy you enough time to move a safe distance away and shield from it. Where is your Master?” 

Obi-Wan recoiled as much as he was able—a large hand instantly shot out to steady him, as if the man with the Sith-gold eyes had been afraid he would fall. “I have no Master.” 

Those eyes flared like stars—a sudden, quickly stamped-out flash of anger—and settled into a look of concern. “What do you mean?” He even seemed to be holding his breath. 

Obi-Wan dropped his gaze with the barest head-shake, ashamed. “I am—I _was_ —an Initiate. I’ve aged out. I’m thirteen next month—”

“Last I heard they kept Initiates _until_ they turned thirteen, and didn’t throw them out to a dustball like Bandomeer to cut their teeth in a slave mine,” the Sith interrupted, almost gently. 

“They didn’t want me,” Obi-Wan said. 

His words were met with a crackling sound and the air filled with the scent of ozone. Startled, Obi-Wan glanced up, watching in fascination as the man’s anger practically coalesced in the air around them, manifesting in wild sparks. Then it receded — as if he kept it controlled, apart from that quick flare of energy. When those frightening eyes sought his again, he quelled a shudder and only shrugged, turning his head away. 

“They said I was too angry. That I could not control my temper. That I’d beaten one of my agemates,” he added bitterly, unable to hold the frustration back any longer, “when all I did was defend myself. He went to the Healers and told them I’d beaten him, and the Masters didn’t question it.” 

A light finger traced the outside edge of a dark bruise on his cheek, hovering millimetres away, but he could still sense it there. It left a pulse of prickling heat—healing—in its wake. “And why didn’t you go to the Healers?” the man asked, voice soft. 

Obi-Wan couldn’t suppress a shiver this time, feeling like something small caught in a predator’s grasp. “I don’t—I didn’t want to—”

“You didn’t want your crèchemate to get in trouble,” the man filled in. 

There was something sympathetic in that tone, something that felt like an ache they might have shared. Obi-Wan hunched into himself, completely out of his depth. What was he supposed to do with sympathy from a Sith? Or—Fallen?

“What am I going to do with you?” The man sighed, voice musing and soft—another incongruity. “Certainly can’t leave you here.”

Before Obi-Wan got even an inkling of his intentions, he’d been lifted it up into strong arms and cradled to a broad chest, wrapped securely in a comforting hold, half physical, half Force-grip. He wanted to struggle against it and break free, he wanted to run. He didn’t want to feel like he was sinking into a cocoon of warmth and safety, here in the arms of a Sith who could as easily snap him in half if he chose. 

But the Force around this man whispered of warmth and spiced tea and gentleness, and a certain degree of possessive protectiveness— _I found him, he’s mine to care for and no one else’s._ In a moment, Obi-Wan realised he could barely keep his eyes open. He curled into the large frame and clung to dark tunics, hiding his face in the man’s shoulder. 

“You may call me Qui-Gon, by the way,” he heard as his eyes slipped shut. “What shall I call you?”

“Obi-Wan,” he half-whispered. A few gently rocking steps more, and he was forced to finally concede his fight against exhaustion. The last thing he heard, before he fell asleep, was a long, rumbling sigh. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mild warnings for Sithly mind-fuckery, because Xanatos didn't get that way by himself, and also probably implied abuse where smol!Obi is concerned. Though, that was in part inspired by davaia's [Patrician](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5837758/chapters/13454005), and there it actually merits the 'graphic depictions of violence' warning.


	2. The Dark and Golden-Eyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon and his strays... some things even Dooku couldn't change.

 

When he realised the boy had fallen asleep on his shoulder, Qui-Gon shook his head slightly. Dooku would have had plenty to say on his habit of ‘picking up strays’. Compassion had always been accessory in his former Master’s eyes—though perhaps this was exactly the reason that Qui-Gon never stopped collecting his strays. All manner of creatures, from the most helpless to the half-terrifying, had flocked to him for help over the years, and he'd almost always been able to pick up how to treat their injuries without much thought. It was a way of holding on to what he knew, beyond all doubt, was a gift entirely his own. 

His Master was very fond of leaving him with doubts. 

What was another youngling cradled in his arms, shivering cold and in need of assurance that he was wanted, cared for, precious? The Force all but screamed it, but the boy seemed unable to hear that note in particular. He was strong, this one, a light so brilliant it damn near burned Qui-Gon when he reached out to touch it, and yet he had been permitted to come close enough to carry him out of the tunnel’s wreckage. Qui-Gon wondered how long he'd been the only one who'd dared to approach. The thought cut deep, somehow, baring his already-kindled protective rage. 

He _had_ to be trained, Qui-Gon felt the Force ringing with that certainty—it was practically audible, whispering in his ears, almost tangible in the way the resonance passed from the small body into his arms, turning his muscles tense. He held the small form like a precious thing he was afraid to drop. 

Yet just as he was certain that the boy _must_ be trained, Qui-Gon knew he could not be the one to train him. How was he to return Obi-Wan to the Temple, when the boy had already once been sent away? Perhaps, he thought, he might convince Tahl to adopt a new Padawan. Or Micah. But he hadn’t seen them or written word in years, and for all they knew he’d been lost to his grief when Xan ‘Fell’. Maybe they’d taken Padawans since. He wouldn’t know about it. 

Xan was another problem. Qui-Gon had instantly recognised the nasty piece of work around Obi-Wan’s neck. Unlike most of the miners’ slave collars, this one also had a Force suppressor. Not quite an Inhibitor—even Xan didn’t quite have the resources for that—but quite enough to weaken one’s connection to the Force. Reaching for it for any reason would be a consistent drain on Obi-Wan’s strength. It would also likely hit quite hard when Qui-Gon finally made an attempt to remove the thing. He wasn’t particularly keen to try, at the moment—he wanted to heal those injuries first. 

Picking his way through the tunnel, Qui-Gon made for less stagnant air. The ground angled subtly upwards underfoot, leaving him with some hope for their eventual exit from mines, but the Force held a low hum of danger here. By itself, that wasn’t much of an indication—the Force warned of danger everywhere, almost always, and Bandomeer was among the least pleasant holes on the arse-end of the Outer Rim. But with Xanatos likely here, and an exhausted child resting in his arms, Qui-Gon at least took care to mind how he went. He didn’t dart out into streaming light the moment he saw it, but edged around the corner carefully until he was certain he sensed nothing there. 

When he finally made it out to fresh air, a cold wet wind backed him into the tunnel again, just inside the mouth of it and out of the spray. They'd come out on the coastal side, then. Qui-Gon set a semi-conscious Obi-Wan down, then eased back against the wall with a sigh and gently squeezed a thin shoulder. Obi-Wan roused immediately, looking a bit lost for a moment before he took in the sight of the Sith in front of him again, but to his credit he didn’t bolt - just tensed slightly, then made a creditable effort to let it go. Qui-Gon noted, with great approval, that he still remained on his guard, at least as much as he was able. 

It was high time to be doing something about that, he decided. 

“Have you tried healing your injuries?”

Obi-Wan shook his head, swallowing with a dry click. “The Force, I can’t—” 

The boy hung his head in obvious shame. That immediate reaction puzzled Qui-Gon, but he shoved aside his bemusement for now. It bore returning to later, though, this child of the créche accepting blame for something that was not his fault, entirely without logic or question, or even a hint of recrimination. This sort of broken spirit was painful to see. 

“It’s alright. It’s not a failure of any kind, Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon reached for one of the small, cold and shaking hands and enfolded it in his own. “There’s a Force-suppressor worked into the collar.” The boy’s eyes went wide, expression sickened, but he said nothing. “It is possible to work around suppressors and inhibitors, but if you try it now, it will likely exhaust you. Will you let me help?” 

For a long moment, Obi-Wan simply stared at him, probably wondering why anyone might want to help him. Qui-Gon met the wary confusion with his own steady, questioning gaze, doing everything in his power to seem less a threat. Then Obi-wan nodded faintly, and he began to slowly uncoil from his contained crouch, making certain the child could track his every moment and read his intentions. 

Aside from the concussion, most of the damage had been limited to bruising, but it took more effort to heal than Qui-Gon was happy with. With a sigh, he settled himself beside the boy, leaving a polite distance between them. Obi-Wan tensed, not surprisingly, but then eased back against the stone anyway, alert eyes watching the whipping wind and water at the mouth of the tunnel rather than fixed on Qui-Gon’s frame. That was somewhat heartening, that the boy didn’t feel the need to watch him every moment for signs of any kind of threat. 

Obi-Wan was thinking hard about something, turning a problem over and over in his head. Let him think, Qui-Gon decided. He himself had had to think a long time about the things he’d been told about the Sith as a crècheling, and the truth he’d ultimately discovered for himself, somewhere between Dooku’s tutelage and the texts his old Master had dismissed as insignificant. 

Qui-Gon had spent the years after his Knighting searching for some sort of truth he’d missed, for something to balance the hatred and fear Dooku had taught him to cultivate and harness. He’d found it, ultimately, in discarded manuscripts and an ancient Temple that had claimed him as something of its own to protect. Voices of ancient, long-dead Masters had whispered from the walls, slowly sent tendrils of warmth curling into places in his mind that had been so cold for so very long - too bright, too gentle, too much like comfort. When his shields finally gave under that pressure, it was like a fire had torn through him—not burning, but thawing. 

The voices went with him when he left the Temple, then the planet. It was, Qui-Gon realised then, just another part of the Force that he’d been unaware of before. It had been enough to help Qui-Gon clear his mind—enough to allow him to return to Coruscant; even take a Padawan, as was expected of him. Now, as he watched the boy beside him, they whispered strange things, strange ideas— _protect this one, take him with you, teach him what you know._ Gods all, he wanted to protect this boy, but it was all he could do to keep himself from shaking his head at those urgent whispers. _I will not take another Padawan to corrupt,_ he told them savagely. 

Not for the first time in the last few years, the response in his mind was one of nebulous, tolerant laughter, like an elder who saw the inevitability of Qui-Gon changing his mind. It sent a cold prickle down his spine. He didn’t like these moments when the Force and all the ancient spirits of the Temple seemed to laugh at him. 

Nevertheless, he did want to see how far Obi-Wan might venture along his own train of thought. It might be an opportunity to open the boy’s eyes to more of the world than Padawans were ever shown, and would serve him well in the future, no matter what his fate. 

Thus the first question Obi-Wan asked actually surprised Qui-Gon a good deal, even if he didn’t show it. 

“What happened in the tunnels?” 

Qui-Gon sighed. “They're old and unstable, presumably. Theories range from seismic activity to rupturing fuel lines, to subterranean aquifers getting their way. There have been some accusations of sabotage, as well.” 

“You’re not here to do geological surveys.” 

Qui-Gon was pleased to hear a faint scoff in Obi-Wan’s voice. _Not so afraid of me, then._

“No,” he shook his head with a tight smile. “I'm here as a  consultant for a company interested in the mining product and agricultural potential of Bandomeer. They were attempting to come to an agreement with Offworld or Arcona—whoever would present them with the better deal, you see. Someone let fly an accusation of sabotage, and as their mediator, I decided to investigate.” 

Obi-Wan stared up at him, blinked a couple times, then nodded. “Oh,” seemed just about all he had to say on the matter. 

It wasn’t, surprisingly, all that different from what Qui-Gon would do if he’d stayed with the Jedi. The difference was, he was on near permanent retainer with a company of his choice, and they paid him enough to afford him some leeway while he scoured the galaxy for his lost Padawan. Xanatos may have cracked in the head—and Qui-Gon might even have had a hand in that, as an unwelcome inner voice reminded him sharply—but he was still _Xan._ Qui-Gon wasn’t giving up without a fight. 

Even if he did end up forcibly dragging the boy to the Sith Temple. 

Obi-Wan stirred with a faint sound, bringing Qui-Gon’s attention back to the child at his side. “Are you alright, Little One?” he asked softly. Then, still more gently, with a lurking suspicion, “Are you cold?” 

The boy had clenched his teeth and twisted his hands together. In his tattered tunics, without the robe, he certainly must have been. After a few seconds teetering between braving the cold and shaking and admitting to his discomfort, Obi-Wan finally nodded. There were no Masters here for him to conform to their stringent expectations. Instead there was a Sith and the Sith was acting strangely, healing his injuries, carrying him out of a damaged and still-crumbling tunnel. 

“Oh, Obi-Wan,” the man sighed, and raised an arm in invitation. “Or, if you wish,” he said after a brief moment when Obi-Wan simply stared at him, “I could give you my robe, but you will be warmer this way.” 

Obi-Wan shook his head as much as he was able, then pushed himself over and sat against his side. Qui-Gon wrapped the robe around him and rested an arm gently across the boy’s shoulders, careful not to confine him. In seconds, Obi-Wan was out again, and Qui-Gon let out a slow breath, staring out at the rain and letting himself fall into a trance. A few moments later there was movement at his side again, and Obi-Wan snuggled closer, small hands burrowing into warm folds of cloth. Qui-Gon couldn’t help a soft chuckle that escaped him, and his hold momentarily tightened around the boy. 

“Steady there, Little One,” he said softly. “We’ll get you back to your Temple yet.” 

How had no one Chosen this fierce bright flame? The heat of him all but licked at Qui-Gon’s fingers when he reached out to that presence in the Force, and it was still suppressor-muffled. Were the Jedi truly as blind as that? 

Had his Master been right, all those times he’d recited blasphemies about the failings of the Order? Even then, Master Dooku’s words had had at the very least an inkling of truth in the Force. These days, when Qui-Gon cared to repeat the memorised lectures to himself—which was almost never—each time, they rang more convincing. 

It sent a shiver down his spine now, to see so brilliant a child denied what was surely the Force’s path for him. 

He needed to contact Tahl, or Micah—needed to tell them about this boy, needed—

Healing Obi-Wan had taken up much of his energy, far more than he’d realised. Qui-Gon sighed, re-wrapping his arms and cloak securely about the child, and gave in to the press of exhaustion on his mind. 

 


	3. An Explosive Situation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan gets what one might term a very _immediate_ lesson on the difference between Sith.

 

Waking up in chains was becoming a more common occurrence in his life. Obi-Wan wasn’t particularly pleased with that thought, but he _had_ entrusted himself to a Sith, what had he—?

_Oh,_ he thought muzzily, staring at his companion, likewise chained beside him. Qui-Gon, however, had no collar about his neck as far as Obi-Wan could see, but he wasn't certain there were no suppressors in the shackles. He was at least sitting, though, while Obi-Wan was curled on the ground beside them. The Sith didn’t even look his way—he was staring ahead of him, features set in a furious glower. 

“Ah, he’s awake!” 

At the sound of that voice, Obi-Wan went cold and jerked his head off the ground, feeling bones grind painfully at the base of his neck. 

“So good of you to join us,” said the smiling, sharp-toothed Xanatos du Crion. Obi-Wan bared his teeth, defiant even like this, but Xanatos only smiled indulgently. “What a lovely little pet you've acquired, Master Jinn. Do you know, the Jedi tossed him out to Bandomeer merely a month to his thirteenth birthday?”

Obi-Wan blinked, confused. _Master Jinn?_ He looked over at the man again, seeing that the glower had been wiped away into a near-expressionless mask, save for the slight tensing of the jaw. 

“You know I am no longer with the Order, Xan.”

Xanatos paid that statement no mind, which did nothing for Obi-Wan’s confusion. 

“He’s angry, this one,” Xan went on instead, amused look lingering on the Initiate, who flushed with shame and grit his teeth in defiance. “Fierce little flame. He’ll be a good challenge for you,” but his cold laugh belied whatever pleasant sentiment the words might have held. 

“Xan—”

“You would know all about anger, wouldn’t you, _Master?_ ”

Qui-Gon fell silent, watching his former Padawan with something that, Obi-Wan realised, looked a bit like worry. He thought maybe there was confusion in that look, as well, and something deeply pained. 

Obi-Wan couldn’t have known that when Qui-Gon looked at Xanatos now, he still saw the child he’d brought to the crèche. He saw the bright little boy with a mischievous streak a parsec wide that didn’t always make him kind, but not quite evil either. He saw the child he’d nursed through fevers, the boy he’d trained, the mind he’d watched unfold and sharpen. 

But when Obi-Wan snuck a quick glance at their captor again he was struck with the image of something else, as if the world had slid out of focus for a second and Obi-Wan saw—not a monster, but a Padawan, braid just barely visible under the long fall of his dark hair, laughing deep-blue eyes in a younger, happier face. He jerked in the bindings, shocked, and the illusion melted away to a hard glare of eyes that burned gold. The look of them was sickly, cold and caustic—nothing like Qui-Gon’s heated amber, which, Obi-Wan now thought, could almost have been kind in comparison. 

Panic tore through Obi-Wan when he saw Xanatos’ eyes narrow sharply, and he didn’t get the chance to move or scream when Xan suddenly reached for him. He was pulled sharply almost off the ground and onto his knees, too close, too close to that face, that glare, the searing heat of Xan’s hand on his neck—

“ _Interesting_.” He drew out the word with cloying sweetness, and instantly loosened his clasp on him. Obi-Wan just barely kept himself from sprawling gracelessly on the ground again. “So you’ve already replaced me, Master? Very fast, and I must say, very efficient. Temple rejects must make such fine apprentices for Sith,” he snarled. 

“You don’t seem to have suffered for being Temple-raised,” Qui-Gon pointed out, surprisingly neutral. Obi-Wan thought he imagined an almost reluctant, predatory wariness in the man’s stillness. 

Xanatos stiffened. “I’ve only had one Master,” he said softly, dangerously, “and my Master had betrayed and abandoned me.”

Qui-Gon shook his head infinitesimally. “Xan, stop this. Your actions on Telos were entirely your own choice, no one forced your hand.” 

A smile, full of teeth and ghastly and wide, spread over Xanatos’ face. “Oh, were they, Master Jinn? Or didn’t Yoda insist my Trials be held on Telos? You made me choose between the Order and my father, and you never believed in the Order to begin with.” He reached out and easily dragged Obi-Wan to his feet, pulling the boy’s shaking frame against him and resting a finger gently on the smooth collar. “So what is your choice now, Qui-Gon? The miners, or the boy?” 

Obi-Wan’s eyes went wide at the softly threatening words. 

“ _What_ ,” Qui-Gon snapped. 

“Simple,” Xanatos replied, enunciating every word carefully as though he were speaking to a child, “either I trigger the collar, or you kneel before me and beg me for your new Padawan’s life,” he smirked darkly, “and I start the countdown for the charges in the mines.” 

Qui-Gon shook his head. “You would not survive standing where you are now.” 

Above Obi-Wan’s head, Xanatos arched an eyebrow and gave him that twisted grin again. “Oh, my Master, none of us would.”

There was something wild to those deep-blue eyes, something Qui-Gon ached to see. Not for the first time, he keenly regretted not having taught Xanatos more, not having shown him more of the Force than what lay within the limitations the Code had imposed. In the last decade, he’d become more and more aware of the Order’s layered history. If he’d known then, if he’d realised that the things he’d discovered on his own were less blasphemy and more forgotten truths, he might have done many things differently with Xanatos. 

“Obi-Wan,” he said, quiet and calm, and waited for large frightened eyes to meet his. “Close your eyes, Little One.” 

Obi-Wan managed the barest nod, and obeyed. 

 


	4. Matter of Semantics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Qui-Gon is still in denial, but we could probably call this progress

 

Xanatos hadn’t been lying about the explosives—not in the collar, not in the mines. If it hadn’t been for Obi-Wan’s help, Qui-Gon would never have found them in time—and certainly he hadn’t the time to disarm the bomb, either. The ionite was another bit of the boy’s quick thinking for which Qui-Gon would forever be grateful. 

He’d had enough of Bandomeer. It was time to take this little Jedi back to the Temple, Qui-Gon decided, so he asked Obi-Wan to follow him. The boy didn’t even ask where, strangely enough. 

“Does that explain the seismic disturbances?” he asked, after a few moments. 

“What—tests for the explosives, in small amounts?” Qui-Gon looked down at him curiously. 

“Tests for strategic placement,” Obi-Wan explained. 

Qui-Gon nodded sharply. “You’re probably right.”

Obi-Wan still hadn’t asked where they were going by the time they made it to Qui-Gon’s shuttle—sleek, light, and very well camouflaged against the barren grey of Bandomeer’s surface. Qui-Gon stopped before the boarding ramp and let the boy decide if he’d go any further. Obi-Wan contemplated his choices for only a moment before he nodded and made his way up into the ship. 

Once inside, he only asked where they were going. “To Coruscant,” Qui-Gon told him, programming the coordinates into the computer. “We’re getting you home.” 

Qui-Gon didn’t notice the stricken look on the boy’s face. If he had, he would have put it to surprise rather than apprehension. Then he turned around and indicated that Obi-Wan should sit down while he rummaged about his ‘fresher for a spare medkit—his own had been lost with his modest travelpack on Bandomeer. He came back and crouched down beside the boy and started tending to various scrapes and bruises. 

“You’re—a Sith,” Obi-Wan said after a few moments, sounding dubious. Something in his tone hinted that he didn’t entirely believe it. Qui-Gon supposed it was only reasonable to be confused. 

“For a given definition of Sith, yes, I suppose I must be,” Qui-Gon answered with amusement. He got a dark look for his humour and chuckled at the sight of the unfairly endearing glower. “Obi-Wan, in certain cultures—in Mandalorian culture, for example—there is no word for ‘Sith’. There is simply ‘not Jedi’. 

“As Jedi are _jeti_ or _jetiise_ , so Sith are _dar’jeti_. Not Jedi. The reason for this is rooted in their history. Mandalorians considered the Jedi an oppressive force. They are very protective of their clan and of their children—it is the core of their _Resol’nare_ , the central code by which Mandalorians lead their lives. Thus it is easy to see how they might have been resistant to the Jedi taking children from their families at an early age.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes widened, and dropped to the floor as he considered this. “So you are— _dar’jeti_. You’re a Mandalorian?” he asked at last. 

Qui-Gon opened his mouth to speak, then froze for a moment, considering. The Temple had always whispered of family, of connection, of raising children as warriors and scholars, but he—for as long as he could remember, he’d had no family apart from his Padawans. (Qui-gon did not even wish to consider his former Master in that context). 

“I—no,” he said at last. “I have no clan, Obi-Wan.” 

The voices in his mind seemed to disagree, rising in a displeased susurrus, but he did not retract his words. 

Obi-Wan gave him a rather curious look. “But you were a Jedi,” he said. 

Qui-Gon winced. “I’m not sure I ever was, at that. My Master was—not quite a Jedi. He hid well. But he did not teach me the Jedi way and I, I thought—” 

He broke himself off there, and sighed heavily, looking away from that painfully open, honest face. Obi-Wan watched him for a moment, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. The bond between them was warm and comforting, but the jumble of feelings on Qui-Gon’s side was decidedly a thorny mass of squirming, dark, unfriendly things that tried desperately to reach out and overtake him. Obi-Wan decided he could risk this, at least: he shuffled forward, laid a hand on Qui-Gon’s arm, then snuggled under it as though he belonged at this man’s side. There was something strangely right about that thought. 

The tension in Qui-Gon’s frame eased as Obi-Wan pressed close to him. He raised his arm and gently brushed his fingers through the short ginger hair, staring ahead absently. 

“It took too long to see it. I should have realised, but even then—whom would I have told? Who could have believed that my Master, a _Councilmaster_ , was a Sith?” Qui-Gon shook his head. 

Obi-Wan shivered hard against his side, and looked up to meet Qui-Gon’s curious gaze. “Master Dooku,” the boy said, with an oddly closed-off expression. 

“Really,” Qui-Gon muttered, reaching out to brush some of the soot and dust from Obi-Wan’s cheek. “And why do you say that?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes danced away from Qui-Gon’s intense focus, but he did answer, quietly. “He felt—cold. In the Force. Even when no one else would take me as a Padawan, I was glad that he was away on a mission. It was the one good thing about being sent away early, because I heard he was scheduled to come back that week.”

The Sith’s eyebrows rose a fraction, and he reached to gently take hold of Obi-Wan’s chin and turn his face back to him. “I would have thought,” he hummed contemplatively, carefully examining the scratches on the boy’s face and healing them with a light brush of fingers, “that he would not have returned to the Temple. Not after Galidraan.”

“What happened on Galidraan?” 

“A disaster of a mission,” Qui-Gon replied instantly, with no little venom in his voice. “He orchestrated the downfall of the True Mandalorians. It was a tense situation to begin with, and it ended with the near-extinction of an entire way of life. But he also implicated the Jedi. I was there,” he added, more softly, as he cleaned a particularly nasty gash on Obi-Wan’s brow. “I made him swear not to return to the Temple. He even seemed agreeable. I heard, a few months later, he’d taken over his family holdings on Serenno. Hold still.” 

Obi-Wan almost couldn’t obey that last order. His frame went rigid in sudden terror. 

“Obi-Wan? Obi-Wan! What is it?” 

Obi-Wan blinked furiously, as though the shipboard lights were suddenly far too bright in his eyes. Qui-Gon snapped out a command— _Lights, twenty percent!_ —which the ship’s computer executed immediately. 

“Little One, what’s wrong? Talk to me, Obi-Wan.” 

“Don’t take me back.”

His voice didn’t come out as much more than a squeak, but Qui-Gon immediately froze in place. 

“Please?”

“Oh, Little One,” he sighed, and drew the shaking child into his arms, lifting him to sit across his lap. “Obi-Wan, you are strong in the Force. You _must_ be trained. And, I think, you know it, too.” 

Yes, of course. The Force had been whispering at him, _Jedi, Jedi, Jedi,_ for as long as he could remember. But at this precise moment, held in a warm and comforting grasp, Obi-Wan felt safer than he had since the crèche, and this felt far more right than going back. 

“You could train me,” he said quickly. 

Qui-Gon coughed sharply. “No—absolutely not,” and set Obi-Wan easily back on the deck plating. 

“But—” 

“No!” The air sparked and snapped angrily, and a sudden blast of Dark—this time not dissipated—battered against the Initiate’s shields. “I cannot teach you this, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon spoke harshly, almost snarling, barely holding back still more Darkness that pushed against his grasp. “I’d never do to anyone what my Master did to me, and the last time I tried to train a Jedi, Xanatos suffered for it. Do not ask this of me.”

The sudden roar of energy should have at least startled him, but Obi-Wan kept his calm. He was staring at the crackling sparks in the air around them. Then he reached up, caught one of the sparking threads and twined it around one finger. 

“There’s more to you than anger,” he said quietly—very bravely, Qui-Gon thought, with equal parts fondness and dismay. The anger receded, guttering out to a warm glow and resting in the background, though no longer as tightly shielded as before. 

“The Temple is not safe, and neither is Bandomeer. And we worked well together,” Obi-Wan added quickly. 

“You do not know what you’re asking.” 

Obi-Wan shrugged. “Master Dooku is on the Council,” he said quietly. “When my yearmate attacked me in the training arena, then told the Healers that I had cornered him while he was unarmed, no one defended me. There was surveillance droid in the arena, I know there was. They didn’t even look. And Bandomeer is tearing itself apart—to stay with the Agricorps…” 

He shuddered. Qui-Gon involuntarily caught fleeting impressions—of taunts and jeers the boy attracted with his few stuttered, accented words alone sent a sudden lancing pain through his chest. That marked Coruscanti inflection had set Obi-Wan apart, and it had given someone the idea that a small frightened child could somehow be haughty, think himself _better_ than his fellow slaves. 

Not all the bruises on him were from the rockfall in the caves, Qui-Gon realised. The boy had been competition to them, and something to vent their frustration on—just as he had been for Bruck at the Temple. Only here he was competition for a far more vital thing, like food, and survival. Alongside that, frankly, the Agricorps no longer seemed so dire an outcome, if only there were a guarantee that Offworld wouldn’t succeed in driving the Corps out. 

Qui-Gon watched him intently, but Obi-Wan stood his ground with his chin thrust forward, determined. _Unfairly_ endearing, he thought again. 

Finally the Sith—the Not-Jedi—sighed, and leaned back against the wall. “Arfour, calculate optimal route to Mandalore and reprogram flight pattern accordingly.” 

::Calculating,:: came the quiet chirp of binary. Obi-Wan tipped his head to one side, curious. 

“There’s an old Temple on Mandalore,” Qui-Gon explained. “I ask that you wait until we arrive, until you’ve at least stood at the gates. Then, I think, will you really know what it is you’re about to commit yourself to. But until then, I will not accept your answer.” 

Obi-Wan’s shoulders dropped as if he’d been holding his breath. _But,_ Qui-Gon admitted to himself, _that wasn’t a no_. All Obi-Wan would have to do was face the Temple—a _Sith_ Temple, of course, but even so. 

“I accept your judgement in this matter,” _Master,_ the boy said. 

A corner of Qui-Gon’s mouth twitched upwards in a tiny amused smile. “Imp,” he said, and Obi-Wan grinned at him, scooting over and burrowing under his arm again. 

“Sleep, Little One,” Qui-Gon said softly. 

He wouldn’t allow himself to admit it, not just yet, but he had probably lost this fight. They were already bound together, and there was no way to break that connection without causing damage to both of them. 

Qui-Gon gently prodded at the bond between them, wincing a little as a muted sense of guilt that crept through him at the sight of it. It was a pretty thing, a golden twining connection that shimmered brightly. It had been there before they’d even removed the collar, though they’d both been too tired to notice at first. Now the gravity of the situation was rather quickly catching up to him. They had a bond—a bond between this boy who should have been given every chance to become a Jedi, and himself—a Sith. 

Xanatos had seen it before they had, and tried to use it. 

Qui-Gon sighed. He’d been fooling himself, hadn’t he? He’d picked up another stray, and there was no way he would ever be returning the boy to the Temple that had turned him out into the barren cold of Bandomeer. A quiet, affection-starved child—Obi-Wan had curled up against his side and fallen asleep again. 

Qui-Gon couldn't even find it within himself to muster a denial, caught off-guard by the swell of adoration for this bright flame in the Force. He was doomed, that was for certain. He'd been doomed from the moment he'd found this ‘pathetic lifeform’ in the rubble. He gathered up the too-thin body once more and held the boy close, wrapping his cloak around them both. 

 

 


End file.
